Although the modern love-songs are inferior to those in the Irish language, for the reason that has been mentioned, that English is not yet the language of the Irish heart, they often possess a simple power, and, though seldom sustained throughout, a touch of nature's genius, which the highest poet cannot reach with all his art. How exquisite is the following:
"As Katty and I were discoursing,
She smiled upon me now and then,
Her apron string she kept foulding,
And twisting all round her ring."
Bits of poetry can be picked out of almost every love-ballad, as witness the following:
"My love is fairer than the lilies that do grow,
She has a voice that's clearer than any winds that blow."
"With mild eyes like the dawn."
"One pleasant evening, when pinks and daisies
Closed in their bosoms one drop of dew."
"His hair shines gold revived by the sun,
And he takes his denomination from the drien don."
"I wish I were a linnet, how I would sing and fly.
I wish I were a corn-crake, I'd sing till morning clear—
I'd sit and sing to Molly, for once I held her dear."
"'Twas on a bright morning in summer,
That I first heard his voice speaking low,
As he said to the colleen beside me,
Who's that pretty girl milking her cow?"
"The hands of my love are more sunny and soft
Than the snowy sea foam."
"My love will not come nigh me,
Nor hear the moan I make;
Neither would she pity me,
Though my poor heart should break."
There is not one, however, that would bear quoting entire, and none that comes anywhere near the flowers of the ancient Irish love-songs which are some of the finest in the world. The principal theme and delight of the ballad-singers are romantic episodes, where a rich young nobleman courts a farmer's daughter in disguise, and, after marriage, reveals himself, his lineage, and his possessions to his bride; or where a noble lady falls in love with a tight young serving-boy. Such a ballad will be as great a favorite among the colleens as the novels of romantic love are said to be among milliners' apprentices. One thing is especially noticeable among the love-ballads, and that is the total absence not only of licentiousness, but even of coarseness. The Irish peasant-girls at home are the most virtuous of their class in the world, owing to the influence of the confessional, the strong feeling of family pride, and the custom of universal and early marriage. Not but there are unfortunates who have made a "slip;" and when the ballad relates of such a tragedy, it shows of how deep effect is the scorn of the parish, and how wretched the fate of the unfortunate and her base-born offspring. The "lamentations" or confessions of condemned criminals are highly popular. Premeditated murder is rare among the Irish peasantry, in comparison with the records of ruffianism among the English laboring classes, and the interest excited by the event is deeper, and extends to a larger space of local influence. These lamentations are the rhymed confessions of the criminals, giving an account of the circumstances of the tragedy, sometimes in the third person, and sometimes in the first, always concluding with a regret at the disgrace which the criminal has brought on his relations, and imploring mercy for his soul. They are of unequal merit, and, as a whole, not equal to the love-songs. Once in a while, there is a touch of untaught pathos; but being without exception the production of the hackneyed writers, they are as little worth preservation as the "lives" of eminent murderers which supply their places among us.
The narrative ballads tell of every event of interest to Irish ears, from Aspromonte to the glorious steeplechase at Namore; the burning of an emigrant ship, to a ploughing-match at Pilltown, the same language being used for the one as the other. During the late war in this country, every great battle was duly sung by the Irish minstrels. The sympathies of the peasantry were usually with the majority of their kindred in the North, but not universally so. Thus does a bard give an account of the battle of New Orleans, which would astonish General Butler:
"To see the streets that evening,
the heart would rend with pain.
The human blood in rivers ran,
like any flood or stream.
Men's heads blown off their bodies,
most dismal for to see;
And wounded men did loudly cry
in pain and agony.
The Federals they did advance,
and broke in through the town.
They trampled dead and wounded
that lay upon the ground.
The wounded called for mercy,
but none they did receive—"
The eulogies of person or place, some patron or his residence, are innumerable, and ineffably absurd. Some years ago, an idle young lawyer at Cork happened to be visiting Blarney Castle, when one of these wandering minstrels came to the gate, and asked to dedicate a verse to "Lady Jeffers that owns this station." The request was granted, and the laughter of the guests, as the bard recited his "composition," may be imagined. The occurrence and the style of verse were common enough, but an idle banter incited the gay youth into a burlesque imitation. The result was the famous "Groves of Blarney," that has been sung and whistled all over the world. Those who have not seen the originals might imagine the "Groves of Blarney" to be an outrageous caricature. But it is not so. It hardly equals and cannot surpass some of the native flowers of blunder. The original is still sold in the streets of Cork, and some extracts, in conclusion, will show how much Dick Milliken was indebted to his unwitting model:
"There are fine walks in those pleasant gardens,
And spots most charming in shady bowers.
The gladiator, who is bold and daring,
Each night and morning to watch the flowers.
"There are fine horses and stall-fed oxen,
A den for foxes to play and hide,
Fine mares for breeding, with foreign sheep,
With snowy fleeces at Castle Hyde.
"The buck and doe, the fox and eagle,
Do skip and play at the river side.
The trout and salmon are always sporting
In the clear streams of Castle Hyde."